


Cold Showers

by cptnbvcks



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rough Sex, Sex Pollen, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-02-24 18:27:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22002457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cptnbvcks/pseuds/cptnbvcks
Summary: Mando gets sex pollen-ed and you just so happen to be in the way of him and his cold shower.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Original Female Character(s), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Comments: 70
Kudos: 2086





	1. Chapter 1

By your count, it had been roughly forty-eight hours since you last saw the Mandalorian. 

It wasn’t your position to ask, and the hunter rarely told you much anyway. It was always the same commands: _Stay here with the child. Don’t let him out of your sight. Keep him out of the cockpit or he’ll have you halfway to Sorgan before you can stop him._

Your job was to take care of the child. Stay out of the Mandalorian’s business. 

You wouldn’t have minded his absence — he had been gone for longer bouts of time before — but there was something about the humid heat of this planet’s rainforests and the incessant croaking from the swamps that set you on edge. The heat was creeping into the ship and it was making both you and the child a little antsy. Your clothes stuck to your skin and the child fussed in his bundles of robes. 

“Don’t worry, kid. I’m sure your dad will be home soon,” you murmured gently as you closed the doors of the Razor Crest for the night, eyes scanning the dense, blue-shadowed forest entrance for any sign of glimmering beskar. The child chittered worriedly in your arms as its ears twitched low. 

You looked down at the little green baby and smiled slightly. Its eyes were shifting back and forth over the entrance of the forest too. Searching.

The child babbled lowly as the doors slid shut, casting its massive eyes up at you expectantly. He opened his mouth, his little teeth peeping out from under his lip, and yawned nice and big with a tiny coo as he smacked his mouth back together. You laughed quietly as he blinked tiredly at you, “C’mon, you little womp rat. Lets get you to bed.” 

You massaged the tip of his ear between your fingers as you walked back into the main chamber of the ship. 

It barely took any time at all between you setting him down in the little sleeping nook and turning out the main lights before the little guy had teetered backwards with a _thump,_ closed those big ol’ bug eyes of his, and began snoozing.

“Thank the Maker there aren’t Jawas out here, huh, bud? I can’t imagine shooing those bastards away in this kind of heat.” You spoke to yourself as you dragged the back of your hand across your damp forehead. 

You were worried. You always spoke to yourself when you were worried. 

“Hope he’s okay, little guy,” you sighed under your breath as you pulled a thin cover over the child, leaning down to press a brief kiss to his forehead before pulling down the sheet metal that would keep him from waking up and wandering around. 

Your hair was sticking to the back of your neck and you were more than grateful that the kid almost always slept through the entire night. It meant that you could take all the time you needed in the ship’s shower. 

— 

The water was icy cold and poured gently from the rusty overhead spray. For once, you didn’t complain. The space was cramped and you wondered how the Mandalorian even fit. Surely his head bumped the faucet and his arms knocked over the few toiletries he had. 

You smiled to yourself at the thought. He was always so serious to you that you couldn’t help but wonder sometimes if he even liked you at all, or if he simply tolerated the additional body because he couldn’t keep dragging the child into life threatening situations. 

Sighing, you pressed your forehead against the metal wall as the water dribbled coldly over your back and shoulders. Your eyes slipped shut as your thoughts returned to the Mandalorian. Out there, in the heat. The dark. You hoped he was okay. Partly because you didn’t know what the hell you’d do if he wasn’t. 

Partly for other reasons that you refused to acknowledge because of professional reasons.

Still, the thoughts came, intruding and incessant, as they always were when two people spent too much time alone in space together. You dragged a hand through your hair and thought of Mando’s. Was his hair brown? You imagined so. Brown hair to match the dusky sound of his voice. Dark eyes too, to match his hair. 

Your hand slipped over your neck and you thought of his skin. You knew it was tanned; honey gold and firm with lean muscles. He had come in once with his under-shirt ripped half to hell and you had to restrain the baby as he cauterized his own wounds, despite your offer to help. 

You never wanted to admit it, but you had thought of that little patch of bronzed skin for about two weeks straight. 

Your hand moved lower and you thought of his hands. He had grabbed your wrist once after you touched his shoulder to check if he was sleeping at the wheel. The force of it had left a faint bruise, and if the Mandalorian had ever noticed it, he never brought it up.

A small moan echoed in the tinny shower chamber at the thought of those hands leaving marks somewhere else. 

Your little daydream was abruptly cut short by the sound of the the ship’s buzzing fluorescents going dead silent. Your eyes shot open but you swore you were still lost in the darkness behind your eyes.

“ _Fuck,”_ you cursed low, panic rising suddenly as the creeping disorientation set in. You dragged your hand over the wet stall, knocking aside the Mandalorian’s facial blades in the process. 

You reached for where you thought the hatch to the shower chamber was. 

Something grabbed your hand. 

Panic shot through you; raw and piercing as you screamed _loud._ The hand that clamped down over your mouth and pushed you back into the shower chamber was bare, dry and rough and big enough that its fingers touched your jaw from edge-to-edge. The hand smelled like blaster residue and leather. 

The body pressed into yours and _by the maker,_ they were _burning up._ Your survival instincts kicked into hyperdrive as you blindly shoved one-handedly at whoever was in the stall with you. Their chest was bare and your hand smacked wetly against it as you shoved at the person’s shoulders. 

“Stop that,” the voice huffed tightly; heavy and familiar and unmodulated — your breath caught in your throat and your struggles halted, “It’s— It’s me. Just me.” 

The Mandalorian. A very _naked_ Mandalorian. 

This had to be a dream. 

Maybe a heat-stroke illusion. 

Your cheeks flared red and you were grateful for the drowning blackness because you thought you might implode if you actually had visual confirmation of what was happening right now. 

You whimpered his name against the palm of his hand, your eyes searching the darkness in front of you for any indication of a face. 

You had never felt so much of him before. Not skin-wise. Not even contact-wise. What was going on? Where had this come from all of a sudden?

He lowered his palm from your mouth before silencing whatever question or rejection that you might have voiced by pressing a hard kiss to your lips. You didn’t know if your eyes were open or closed but you swore you saw stars when he dragged his tongue over the roof of your mouth. 

_Maker,_ he tasted exactly as you had imagined.

“‘m sorry, it’s just— I don’t…” he grunted against your mouth, his words jagged and slurred as his hand dragged down the curve of your throat, squeezing there for a moment before sinking down to the trembling curve of your damp breasts. He squeezed hard, unrestrained and nearly unhinged as he pinched the wet peak of your taut nipple. It fucking _hurt_. “Just… _fuck—,_ need you— need _this_ — _”_

He wasn’t making much sense but you couldn’t exactly ask for clarification when he made his point by shoving his hand between the wet flesh of your thighs. 

Something about this feels _off._

Something about the slur of his voice and the radiating heat that’s surrounding him. The hunter barely ever looked in your direction, rarely even spoke more than he needed to — hell, sometimes you wondered if he even remembered your name — and now here he was, cornering you naked in the shower, sans-helmet and hard as the beskar steel he wore.

Something was _wrong._

“M-mando, wait—! _Maker,_ what’s going on? _”_

Your head falls back against the chamber wall and the ragged gasp that interrupts when he circles your aching clit with the rough pad of his finger is almost unbecoming of a lady. 

It’s almost embarrassing how quickly you get wet for him. Even more so when he buries his fingers to the knuckle within your walls and you cry out like you’ve never been touched by a man before. You’re hot and wet on his fingers as he thrusts them deeper, curling them hard against your clenching cunt until every logical thought turns into gibberish in your head. 

“I just… please, _fuck—,_ stop _talking.”_

You comply, but only because he locks his mouth over your breast and rubs his thumb over your swollen clit and you swear to every god in the galaxy whatever’s possessing the Mandalorian is rubbing off on you. 

Your thighs shake hard as he wraps his arm around your waist, forcing you up onto your toes in an attempt to match his height. His cock is trapped between your bodies, hard and thick and your cheeks blush dark as he shifts his hips against you, all but fucking himself against your stomach. It’s vulgar, maybe a little demeaning, but the heat that’s pooling against the Mandalorian’s fingers tells a different story.

“You’re so… _tight,”_ He growls, shoving you harder into the chamber wall, “How are you so tight? I can’t— fuck, can’t wait—” He trails off as you card your fingers into his hair. You feel him shudder against you as he bites down on your flesh hard enough that you pull at his hair in protest. 

He moans against you; low and deep in his chest as he rolls your nipple over his tongue. His entire mouth is hot; fever hot.

All you have is your sense of touch but something about the way he shoves his fingers into you just a little harder and sucks a fresh bruise into your collarbone when you drag your nails against his scalp tells you that you’re testing the fine line of his restraint. 

You know the Mandalorian would never hurt you. He’d never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. But something tells you that if you push him tonight, you’ll be regretting it by morning.

“Turn around,” he orders and you hear the slurred strain of his voice. It almost sounds like he’s wounded but you can’t tell if he’s bleeding with the way the water’s flowing against your bodies. His cock pulses against your stomach as he drags his fingers from your heat, drawing your slickness over your clit until his fingers glide easily over the sensitive bundle of nerves.

You take too long to do as you’re told. 

He’s pushing you out of his arms again, his grip bruising as he grabs your hips and flips you towards the wall. The movement of it in such tiny quarters knocks more things from the small shelves of the shower. Your hands fly up to cushion your fall as he shoves you up against the biting steel. The metal is freezing on your breasts, icy compared to the warmth of your hunter’s mouth, and your nipples harden painfully upon contact.

You yelp with surprise as he brings a hand down over your ass. His palm lands slightly awkwardly and it hurts more than you think he intended, “ _Ow!_ Fuck, Mando, not so hard—!” 

He hears you, but you don’t think he _hears_ you, because he does it again. Your body jolts and it stings even worse because of the water. This time, he gropes at the plump curve of your backside with one rough palm while the other roams over the exposed flesh of your back that he can hardly see in the darkness. 

There’s so much of _you. So much._ His thoughts are foggy, sluggish and pinwheeling solely to the body trembling before him in the dark and all the things he wants to do to it. To _you._

He doesn’t realize he’s saying half of these things out loud, brokenly and stuttering on his tongue. They’re filthy and they make you blush all the way down to your breasts.

He knows something’s wrong. Knows he shouldn’t. But when he takes his cock into his hand and drags the bulbous head over your soaked entrance, the Mandalorian realizes that he doesn’t care bout the morality of it. There’s only _you._ Soaking wet and blushed pink for _him_. 

You gasp wordlessly, stunned to silence, as he circles your hips with his battle-hardened grip and buries himself deep into your body with a single decisive thrust. Your cry of pleasure comes late, catching on your exhale as your walls flutter tight around him. 

A random shiver crawls down your spine that makes your walls grip him even tighter. Your broken whimper echoes in the shower chamber as you slap a hand weakly against the wall beside your head, your body struggling to acclimatize to the stretch of him. 

“Fu-uck, Mando,” You choke out out, “ _Fuck.”_

He lets out a shuddered breath behind you and you realize he hasn’t moved an inch yet. Instead, he presses you flat between the wall and his body and _grinds_ into you. Hits you in a place so deep that you swear to the galaxy’s edge that you can feel the ridge of his cock’s head inside of your walls with distinct clarity. Your toes curl and a muscle begins to knot itself in your thigh from the strain of being on your tip toes.

The noise that leaves you is fucking _primal._

He drops his head against the back of your shoulder and lets out a sharp breath, “Good— you feel so _good._ So soft, everywhere. _Everywhere._ ” 

He begins to move. There’s nothing slow or deliberate about it. It’s messy, the way he fucks into you like he’s halfway forgotten that you’re a person and not a rag doll. 

His hands grab handfuls of your curves, dips between your thighs just to feel the obscene way your pussy stretches around his cock. His mouth is sucking purple bruises over your shoulder blades, ones you won’t even notice once the lights come back on. You smell like his soaps and taste of the distilled water of the shower. He runs his tongue over your flesh and bites down. 

He knows he’s being too rough; knows you’re biting down the pain when he digs his fingers into your breasts and drags your back flush against his chest. You’re wincing slightly when he hits you too deep but you’re sobbing for him when he sinks his fingers between your legs and begins working your clit beneath a rough finger.

You’re making the most beautiful sounds while you’re taking him and when he wraps his hand around the delicate curve of your throat and pins your head back against his chest, you reach up and grab his arm with urgency, nails biting into the exposed skin of him. Your pussy clamps down hard around his girth and he pushes against the resistance until he’s as deep as your body would allow him. 

It’s so dark and you’re lost in it and all you know is him and the earth shattering pleasure when his fingers press down on your clit. You’re coming and you think you’re screaming but you only know for sure when he squeezes your neck hard enough that the sound catches in your voice box. 

You cling to him as your walls pulse around his cock. You only realize he had cum too when you feel the liquid fullness of it as he continued to fuck himself into your spent body. 

Well.

Now you’re a little concerned for your pussy’s wellbeing.

— 

You wake up the next morning disoriented. The ship is bright and you can hear the birds outside loud and clear. A warm humid breeze blows in and it carries the babble of the baby. 

_The baby!_

You jolt upright and almost knock yourself out on the utility compartment above the spare cot. 

“Easy. I’ve got him.” The voice comes from the ramp of the ship, crackling gently through the modulator of a shiny beskar helmet. He’s standing at the open entrance, dressed in his armors with the little green child bundled in his arms. You notice the fresh scuff marks on his cuirass, tokens from whatever battle had brought him to this jungle planet for so long. 

Your chest catches with a sudden sharp inhale as the knowledge of the night before hung heavily in the air between you.

For a moment, you don’t know what to say. You wonder if to say anything at all. 

It wasn’t like you could both ignore the fact that he had fucked you from sundown to sunrise in every spot you could fathom on the ship. You certainly couldn’t ignore the fact that you could still feel the remnants of him between your thighs. 

“I understand if you want to leave.” 

The Mandalorian’s abrupt words catch you off guard, but it’s what he said that stuns you to silence. 

“What we did— What _I_ did, I shouldn’t have— I shouldn’t have done that to you,” the Mandalorian was stumbling on his words but the shame that hung in the air between them felt like a punch to the gut, “I was tracking a mercenary in the marshland. She tagged me with something. Some kind of amatory agent.”

It was both hazy and vivid in his mind — putting the quarry in the carbonite chamber, shutting down the lights because he thought you had already retired with the child and to avoid the risk of you finding him without his helmet in his disoriented state, then stumbling out of his armor and into the shower to quell the burning heat that had crept over his body and blurred his mind to one physical singularity.

He remembered finding you in the shower chamber. Naked. Wet. 

And he remembered every single thing he did to you afterwards. 

“I’m truly sorry,” he said softly, and you knew that he fully meant it. You tried to ignore the growing pang of dejection that settled sourly in your stomach. The Mandalorian averted his gaze then as the child peered between you and his somewhat-father, gurgling contently. The hunter turned towards the cockpit hatch. “I’ll set the co-ordinates back to take you back to Nevarro.” 

“… Do you want me to leave?” 

Your words made him pause. The sound of hurt in your voice made his heart ache at the wonder of what he might have broken between you. His breaths echoed in soft static through the helmet as he stood silently.

“No. I don’t.” 

You slipped out of the bunk despite the protest of your thighs. The Mandalorian felt his heart jump in his throat at the sound of your bare feet padding over and for a moment he wondered if he had truly worked all of that poison out of his system. He didn’t fight as the child lifted his arms for you to take him.

You itched the back of the baby’s head and he exclaimed happily. The Mandalorian was looking at you now, just the slightest tilt of his helmet to indicate as much. You looked up at him from beneath your lashes, sugar sweet and endlessly forgiving, as you kissed the child’s head. 

“Then I won’t,” you said softly, jokingly lifting the child slightly, “For his sake.” 


	2. Heat Wave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After getting sex pollened, the Mandalorian forgets to check to make sure he hasn’t dragged anything in with him. It’s just your luck that he missed a spot.

The Mandalorian hasn’t spoken to you in hours. 

Truthfully, you were used to silence — broken only by the small interactions that passed between you and the Mandalorian, unavoidable granted the confined space of the Razor Crest and the general nature of your professional relationship. In all the months you had been with him and his peculiar little child, you could never fully place whether that silence came from his genuine preference for the quiet, or if the two of you were still figuring out how to co-exist. 

Yes — you were used to the silence, and the once stable terms of its existence — but the Mandalorian hasn’t spoken to you in hours and the terms were the furthest they had ever been from _stable_. 

“He _really_ isn’t much of a talker, is he?” You mumble into the steady white-noise prattle of the ship, not expecting much of a response back from the green toddler as you turn over his little blue blanket, setting it back neatly into the floating cradle before picking it up again to refold it. The child only squeaks out a high giggle, tossing his small body against the ship floor as the stow-away frog he had been chasing bounces out of his reach with a distressed croak. You smile somberly, “Hope you’re not the brooding type too, lil’ guy. It’s starting to get real boring talking to myself over here.” 

Maker, you were worrying again. 

Your eyes move from the ankle-height baby to the hull ladder. 

You could… you could always just go up to the cockpit. It wasn’t like you were banned from going up there. The doors weren’t made of anything stronger than steel. They would open for you if you stood in front of them, just as they did countless times before. And yet— 

Was he waiting for you to approach first? Was he patiently waiting for you to come restore a sense of normalcy to this terribly abnormal situation by acting like it had never happened? 

Did you want to act like it had never happened? 

Did he? 

Your train of thought snaps back to the present with a small, foreign push of urgency, leaving you blinking around the cockpit before your eyes settle on the child. “Hey,” your brow furrows as he coos up at you from the space beside the empty carbonite chamber, one clawed hand tugging at a thick bundle of cloth currently proving to be far too large for a creature of his size to handle, “What do you have there, bright eyes?” 

The baby tilts his head up, batting those massive eyes at you with a burbling vocalization and, not for the first time, you find yourself just a little suspicious at how easily he compels you to come to his aid. 

“You gotta get better at keeping up with those frogs, bud,” you amble over, squatting down beside the chittering child and offering him a reassuring head scratch. 

Pulling the fabric up into the curl of your arm, you recognize it easily as the Mandalorian’s cloak — half-way threadbare in spots with holes in others, and pilled enough that you doubt it felt even remotely pleasant on bare skin. He must have discarded it here when he stumbled in last night and missed it completely when putting his armour back on after— 

After. You try not to let your thoughts stray, catching them sharply before they dare simper back to how his skin felt without any of this — no armour, no cloak, _nothing_ —

You shake the thoughts from your head, grabbing the length of his cloak by the fistfuls as you continue on: “I don’t think the Mandalorian would appreciate it very much if something started croaking in the walls— _ow!”_

The suddenness with which you tear your hand out of the cloak is enough to tip your balance, dropping you heavy on your ass in the centre of the Razor Crest’s hull. The movement startles the disgruntled frog out of the shadows as it hops away quickly from behind the carbonite chamber to escape the child currently advancing after it again. 

Your hand trembles. 

Oh no. Oh no, _no no—_

The pain brings tears to your eyes; but it’s the panic that puts you into shivers. 

Your palm pulses far too warmly as you stare down at the dart protruding from the pink meat of your hand — an unassuming little thing, just a brushed steel housing unit surrounding an empty glass phial, and a needle long enough that you swear it scrapes somewhere deep and boney with every involuntary flex of your hand.

Had… had the phial been full when you grabbed the cloak?

Maybe it had been empty.

Maybe it had been the same dosage that had set the Mandalorian off — the one that quarry in the rainforest had tagged him with just before he staggered into the Razor Crest with a few things on his mind besides a cold shower. It could have simply gotten tangled in his discarded cloak after injecting him; forgotten and silently waiting for his hired companion to sink her hands blindly into. 

Then why was your heart currently kicking itself into a staccato rhythm like a percussion instrument in a cantina band, while startling, thrumming static heat slithers from the tips of your fingers, down the coil of your spine, to fucking sing around that soft, soft swell of nerves and—

Your feet scuttle against the floor of the ship, scooting yourself back until the metal wall of the hull proves itself an immovable force against your attempt to run away from your own offending appendage. You snap your knees shut and refuse to acknowledge the low frequency hum suddenly buzzing between them.

Yeah, you think frantically, just— just a placebo effect. All of it. Even the way your thoughts currently seem to slow to a sweetened roll — warm molasses, tumbling, easy and sweet from one unrushed thought to another with a lazy fixation on the needle still sitting garishly in your flesh. 

Why were you worrying? 

Maker — you felt _good_. Like, three flagons of spotchka good.

The gravity of the situation only flashes back to life when the cockpit ladder rattles, followed by the familiar sound of two heavy boots hitting the hull floor. 

“Is the child sleeping?” 

He speaks through his movements, his voice falling dusky and gravelled through the filter of his modulator — coarse from its disuse since this morning when he had isolated himself in the cockpit after spending roughly ten hours fucking you into every known corner of the dingy gunship, only to leave you with an unsteady understanding of your professional relationship. 

Mando turns, looking to the cot first: “I thought that we could talk—” 

You push your thighs tighter together, your mind trying to remember exactly why you have the present urge to childishly hide your hand behind your back. The pulse beating in your outstretched palm almost matches the one throbbing in your cunt as you stare up at this impossibly large figure from the floor of the Crest. 

His helmet tilts around the empty hull, searching, following the sound of the child noisily devouring his victim somewhere deeper in the cargo area. It isn’t until you shift your legs closer inward, drawing your knees higher to your chest, that the visor of the helmet finally tips downward. Then lower. To your outstretched hand.

Then he speaks — and, _Maker_ , you’re _wet_.

“What did you do?” His tone cuts somewhere between ire and panic as he steps forward, closing the gap across the narrow hull in just two full strides. You open your mouth to respond, but he catches your wrist and hauls you to your feet before you can even find the vocabulary to use, much less the voice to speak it with. He tugs your arm, leveraging it outward until you loosen the tension of your muscles, allowing him to hold your wounded palm upwards. 

You’re not looking at the needle — you’re looking at him. 

The Mandalorian jerks his helmet upward, the movement abrupt enough that you actually jump a little at the sharpness of it. You blink dumbly at the beskar visor, then a few more times when you realize that he’s expecting a response. 

“I—, yo-your cloak,” you sputter out. Stars, your mouth was cotton. “It was on the floor, by the— the, uh, carbonite—” your brows furrow as you speak, every word seeming to hang desperately to the previous in a last ditch attempt to form any coherent sentence when all you can think of is the way the Mandalorian’s entire hand circles your wrist. You swallow thickly as he unfurls your fingers with his other, moving with surprising care around the knots and grooves of your knuckles, stretching your hand fully open to examine the wound. “I picked it up, and— and I must have… it must have been…” 

“I’m going to pull it out,” he says after a moment of listening to your stutters, those words just as firm as his grip around the meagre bones of your wrist. He seems to notice the flash of alarm rounding your eyes because he softens his voice, his visor lifting to match your gaze again and his helmet bobbing slightly as he speaks, “Gonna need you to hold still for me. Can you do that?” 

Not even the haze of his voice delays the raw panic that rockets up your spine. Pull it _out_? Maker, it felt like someone had put your hand through a spike when it went _in_. 

The muscles of your arm go taut, seizing tight from your shoulder to your wrist and your back bumps hard against the side of the hull in your attempts to flee. 

“Ho— hold on—” you choke out, and your thoughts, previously fixated on the firm press of the Mandalorian’s gloved fingers, now spiral around how fucking strong that grip is. It’s like you’ve got the entirety of one hand frozen in carbonite while the rest of you flails around in some helpless attempt to dislodge yourself. You tug against the power of his grip, but all you manage to do is pull yourself up closer, your feet slipping against the steel floor before your wrist ever even budges. 

“W-wait— wait, _Mando—!”_

The Mandalorian raises his other hand and you slam your eyes shut, every muscle curling away as you brace against the pain you imagine is about to explode in the centre of your palm. Your breath hiccups in your throat as you twist your head and tuck yourself away in the hunch of your shoulder. 

A moment passes. 

Then another.

You count them on his breaths — steady, compared to the shuddering hiccup of your own. 

Of course he’s unbothered. You reckon from the amount of times you’ve seen him take his cauterizer to his flesh after shoving some unlucky quarry into carbonite that he didn’t feel anything more than mild annoyance when stabbed. 

Another moment goes by. _Maker_ , why is he taking so long—?

Your eyes slowly wink open when, instead of the sharp bite of the needle’s exit, you feel the warm leather of the Mandalorian’s index finger curling beneath your chin. He tips your head towards him again, angling your face upwards until you finally match the gaze of his visor. 

He draws his thumb against the skin of your bottom lip. It quivers. 

“Hey,” he beckons softly, the tilt of his helmet the only indication that he was watching down at you, “it’s going to be okay. I’ve got you. Just— just breathe through it. Alright?” 

Was he talking about the extraction, or what would happen after? 

You barely manage a little nod, taking a second to even process what exactly you were agreeing to. It feels like your body’s going through every emotion and your mind was scrambling to keep up. 

He doesn’t draw back like you expected. Instead, the Mandalorian uncurls his fingers from beneath your chin, opening his palm across the curve of your jaw as your expression fights between bravery and anxiety. He holds his position there, sinking his hand further back until his fingertips brush against the back of your ear. 

There’s something a little… unsaid in his quietness. Something in the moment that he holds there, too long to only mean to comfort you, seeming to carry an internal conversation — a debate, more likely — that you couldn’t read through the unmoving beskar. 

You swallow against the saliva that suddenly begins to pool in your mouth, though it does little to quench the sudden dryness constricting your throat. His hand flexes when you tilt your head into his palm.

Maker, his hands are big. The same hands you’d seen throttle bounties into binders and carbonite, disassemble and reassemble weapon after weapon — the same hands that had wrapped around the back of your neck and pushed your face into the Razor Crest’s floor, caged your wrists in with enough strength to hold you rather than hurt you. 

He should have pulled away by now, but you aren’t in any rush to remind him of his goal when he lowers his thumb down your chin. The Mandalorian watches your eyelids droop, your wobbling lip catching between your teeth as you arch your throat openly into the cusp between his thumb and index finger.

_Oh, stars— you tremble._

Your thoughts aren’t syrup anymore — not that slow pour of warmed honey. You’re fucking burning up. Molten lava, red and churning and aching and you purse your lips to stifle your gasp when his fingers flex their grip around the sides of your throat. 

The Mandalorian snatches his hand away, suddenly enough that your whimper breaks off into a gasp. 

“Mando—” You sound as breathless as you feel, your eyes halfway between open and closed and absolutely stupefied already. 

His voice catches, ragged as it drags across the back of his throat.

“Breathe.” 

Your brain barely registers the command before the tug. Skin and flesh pull up, serrating painfully on the small barbs peppered along the length of the needle as Mando yanks it free with one clean motion. 

You don’t even get the chance to scream, your mouth simply hanging open on a sharp exhale as tears start welling over the barrier of your lower lashes. Mando releases his grip, allowing you to recoil your wounded hand back into your chest while you try to tamp down the urge to start blubbering like a baby. The invasive sting of the phantom needle scraping against your hand’s bones lingers. 

“Wh-what—” Your voice sounds small even to your own ears, “What happens n-now?” 

The Mandalorian doesn’t speak for a long moment, his visor no longer focused on your face as he roots out the medpack buckled to the side of his utility belt. 

“Where’s the child?” He asks curtly, blatantly avoiding answering the question you posed.

You swallow. 

You don’t think you need him to answer it anyway. 

— 

_Breathe. Breathe, breathe, breathe—_

So this is what happens now.

Your chest heaves quick, rising tight and fast and your lungs can’t seem to fill no matter how much of the cold ship air you gulp down, your thoughts steadily straying from the one mantra keeping you from fucking imploding right here in the co-pilot seat. 

_Breathe. Oh, maker, just— just kriffing breathe._

A sob chokes up from your throat as your head tips backwards, pushing into the soft red padding currently cushioning the back of your head. You twist your shoulders left and right, attempting to work your arms free of the binders magnetized to the chair’s corded metal spine. It’s undignified, and unprofessional, and a small logical voice in your head derides you for it — but right now the only thought registering loud and clear is how badly you want to break your own wrists to get out of these cuffs the Mandalorian had put you in. 

“Mando, please,” you gasp out, inhaling twice before exhaling a sob, your voice glassy with tears, “I’m s’sorry—” 

You hadn’t meant to reach for his helmet. You never would have done something so reckless while in your right mind. Maker, you hardly even remember actually doing it. All your memories offer you is that he had been so covered. Beskar that pushed against fevered skin when he backed you against the cockpit doors and hazily informed you that this is all I can give you right now while tearing open your belt buckle to sink his gloved hand down the front of your pants.

It had been enough. For a moment.

Enough — until the coarse pads of his fingers plucked the final chords of your senses and you needed more, _more, more._ Infinitely more. You wanted his mouth — hot and wet and his _tongue_ — Maker, you wanted him to do that _thing_ he did last night that had made you wonder if he would make you burst into a hysteria so severe you might never recover. 

You don’t think you had even managed to lift the kriffing thing more than an inch, barely even gotten your fingers beneath the edge before the Mandalorian was linking your arms behind your back and fastening them in a pair of his binders for both of your own sakes.

You’ve been apologizing ever since. 

Mando doesn’t turn, his head fixed dutifully straight into the glimmer of hyperspace as his fingers move across the console, jabbing and flipping switches on muscle memory alone. If he’s mad, he doesn’t show it — not in any way that you can tell. He’s just… _ignoring you._

It’s worse than the silence; this unyielding lack of acknowledgement that threatens to madden you even more with how utterly helpless it makes you feel. 

“I won’t— won’t do it again, I promise, please, _please_ —” your words hollow out into another pathetic little noise that purses your lips together as cunt clutches down in a slow, coiling wave that threatens to curl your body into itself, your shoulders hunching forward as far as the binders would allow. Your hair falls into your face as your head drops forward, fists clenching tight behind you as another insidious spasm rolls hot and striking through your core. A wretched gasp pulls from your throat as the breath you had been unknowingly holding onto punches out of your chest, the noise quickly falling somewhere between a moan and a whimper when you push your thighs together and begin pedaling them for any sort of relief. 

Between them, a humiliating wetness slicks inside of your underwear, the material sticking uncomfortably enough that it threatens to put fresh tears in your eyes while the Mandalorian continues to ignore you. 

“Shouldn’t be far once we drop out of hyperdrive.” His voice startles you; measured and tense despite the deep down-pitch from the helmet’s vocoder. It half sounds like he’s talking more to himself than to you. The pilot’s chair swooshes, swiveling around as he rises out of it. “I’ll go get the kid.” 

You reckon you must present quite a pathetic sight — coiled into yourself with your toes barely brushing the floor with how hard you’re clamping your thighs together — enough so that the Mandalorian stops in his tracks. 

A yellow-fingered glove settles down on your knee. Broad and comfortingly strong as his thumb strokes a semi-circle over the juncture and, _maker_ , you wanted to push your legs open and beg him to put that hand higher, to rub those circles somewhere else. Somewhere hot and so, so _slick_ —

He says something but you don’t catch it, too busy staring at that hand from behind the curtain of your hair. Your eyes don’t leave that spot even after it disappears from your line of vision, only to reappear against your cheek. 

The Mandalorian tilts your head upwards to match his height as he stands just to your left, allowing your hair to fall back as he presents your face to the glittering whites of the streaking stars. This time, you moan when he touches you. 

No, not moan — you _mewl_. 

Like a loth cat coiling into its owner's palm, you push your head into his touch and if he was going to say anything, the words catch in his throat the moment you blink up at him with eyes so full of tears that it feels like you’re staring up at him through the shallows. 

“‘m sorry,” your words come out slurred and airy, your eyes moving aimlessly over the beskar. Your lower lip quivers and your vision swims and your next words are effortful, strung together with the desperate hope that he knows they’re sincere. “Y-your helmet— I’m really, _really_ _s-sorry_ , Mando. I know— I know what it me-means to you. I shouldn’t have— I shouldn’t have d-done that.” 

Your voice hiccups as the train of thought threatens to derail when he broadens his palm against the side of your face and catches a tear that had descended over the contours of your mouth, dipping into your cupid's bow. You swallow back the incessant wetness that fills your mouth again at the urge to part your lips, to taste the leather of that glove on your tongue. 

Another spasm seizes blindingly across your pelvic floor, dropping your mouth open and pulling your brows tightly together. You turn your face into his hand and whimper, high and desperate, “O-oh, maker,” you gasp out into the warmth of his palm, “It _h-hurts—”_

“What can I do?” The Mandalorian’s voice sounds strained, almost breathless as he lets you nestle your head in his palm, “How can I help? Tell me how.” 

Tell me how. Stars, was he asking for direction? Or permission? 

You give him both. 

_“Touch me,”_ you put all of your desire into the words, let them burst from your mouth like you’d been holding them in ever since he bound you to the co-pilot seat, “Please, Mando— jus-just like before— just like last night—” 

A soft sound curls up from his throat and your cunt bares down at the wrecked sound of the Mandalorian’s self-control breaking. His fingers tighten around the side of your throat, curling downwards as his thumb drags a firm line against your voice box before dropping lower. Lower. 

“We can’t—” Mando rasps, his actions deviating from his words as his hand sinks into the collar of your tunic, the leather of his gloves unbelievably warm as he spreads his fingers out, “The kid— I’ll have to land soon—” His voice cracks into a sharp inhale when his fingers drag over the peak of your nipple, hard enough to surely be painful. The ragged, shuddering gasp that tears from your throat confirms as much. 

“Your gloves,” you croak out urgently, your thoughts too splintered to even grasp anything other than the way you needed him to put his bare hands on your skin, “Just— just take off your gloves, please—” 

You barely get the words out before he’s tearing his hand out of your clothing and throwing the glove somewhere against the Crest’s console, returning his hand to your tunic only to tug free the meagre clasp holding the front panel of it shut. Your back arches into the seat, inhaling sharply when the cold air tightens your nipples for a single painful moment before the Mandalorian’s palm is there, _squeezing_. 

“M-maker,” you shudder, letting your head drop back against the seat with a thud. He catches the pebbled flesh between the lengths of his fingers, pinching them together as he gropes at you with a touch far too hungry to be just for your pleasure, _“Oh, stars, s’good—”_

“Is this all you needed?” he implores, his voice tight in his throat as you offer up a helpless moan into the cockpit air, nodding frantically. You roll your shoulders, pushing your tits further into the coarse, dry plains of his palm as he watches you preen into his touch. He moves his hand to your other breast, circling your nipple beneath the pads of two fingers and your knees jolt high enough that your feet leave the ground, “Is this enough —?” 

“F-fuck, Mando, just _needed you_ —” the words bubble from your throat in little gasps, desperate to burst out into acknowledgement, to exist outside of your own head, “— _Always_ needed you, always, _always_. _Always_ thought of you,” you pant out, “When you’d come back. Wanted to make you feel _s-so good_. To— to take _care_ of you.” 

The growl that tears out of the Mandalorian’s throat makes your cunt bottom out with want, the hand that had been manipulating your tits pushing up against your sternum before sinking into the side of your hair, tightening until you open your eyes to find that visor locked squarely on your face. 

“Do you mean that?” Mando asks, the question ragged and urgent as it spills out from beneath his helmet. 

You jerk your head into a nod as his grip flexes demandingly into your hair. “Since Corellia,” you admit spacily, “that— that first bounty, the one that tr-tried to— to steal the Crest—”

The Mandalorian remembered it. 

You must have only been with him for a week at that point: an unassumingly quiet and mild-mannered addition that had taken well to his orders, didn’t snoop through his things, and seemed to entertain the child better than he ever could. You had been… pleasant. Skittish, at times. Enough so that he kept at a distance to keep you comfortable rather than intimidated. 

Mando’s fingers flexed into your hair at the memories — of returning to find the Crest ramp lowered and a Devaronian ripping up and rejoining the wiring of the cockpit console, and you and the child nowhere in sight; of the pierce of nauseating fear that lanced through his heart when he couldn’t find you, and of the swell of relief when he tore open the storage chamber behind the cockpit to find you and the little one tucked away, hidden behind one of his weapons crates. 

He remembers that panic, and then the tears in your eyes when you rushed at him with the child clutched tight to your chest — only to stop yourself before ever closing that final foot of distance between yourself and his arms. 

“N-never been so, so scared before,” you tell him, “Never— _never_ stopped thinking—”

When the Mandalorian speaks again, his voice is choked and desperate.

_“Sweet girl,”_ he groans out, deep and heady and you whimper at the way your panties grow slicker at the endearment.

_Sweet girl._ Sweet girl. You want him to call you that forever. You want to hear him gasp it into your ear — snarl it in the cool dark of the ship until your ears ring with it over and over again. Sweet girl.

This time, when he brings his thumb over your lips again, you open your mouth. 

Mando pushes the digit in without hesitation, his breath pulling rough from his throat when you drag your tongue over the bare pad of his thumb. You wrap your mouth around his knuckle, and suck.

“Used to th-think about it — how you’d taste,” you draw back as you speak, letting his thumb drag over the ridge of your teeth. You lift your gaze up to him, the soft, glistening pink of your tongue flicking out to drag over the apex between his fingers, “If you’d let me, if— if you _wanted_ me to—” 

“Is that what you want, sweet girl?” he implores, his thumb leaving your mouth as he grabs your chin and forces your head upwards. You squirm in your seat, staring at him from beneath droopy eyelids, “Is that what you think about when you join me up here?” 

You thought about it everywhere. The cockpit. The cot. On the ramp, the hull, the shower—

“Yes,” your eyes drop from his helmet to his cuirass even as he holds your head firmly still in his grasp, down to the way his cock tents obscenely in his pants. Your mouth fills again, tongue darting out to swipe over your glistening lips, “Please, Mando—” 

“Use your words.” 

_“Fuck my mouth.”_ The words are vulgar coming from a mouth that had spent so long offering him nothing but blushed smiles and polite pleasantries. And yet, they felt so _fucking_ good to say. “Maker, want you to fuck my mouth, Mando— want you to use me, _however you want_ —” 

The Mandalorian’s fist tightens in your hair and, even in your current state, your eyes round with surprise when his free hand begins fumbling to unclasp his belt. 

But your cunt weeps at the sight of your silently terrifying bounty hunter taking his cock into his bare fist. 

Staring isn’t the right term for what you were doing. No — you were _gawking_. Somewhere in your addled thoughts your mind finally understands why you had been so incredibly sore this morning. He gives a light twist of his hand and you all but whimper at how badly you want it inside of you again.

“We don’t have long,” his voice shudders, the words raking rough through his modulator when he looks down to find your head already twisted sideways against the headrest, lips already parted and slick and waiting. When he speaks again, his voice shakes, “I’ll need to drop us out of hyperspace s-soon—” 

The statement devolves into a curse when, even with the binders refusing you much in the way of lateral movement, your head tips forward just enough to flick your tongue over the bead of pre-cum already glistening on his tip. You moan somewhere in the back of your throat.

“Might be qu-quicker if you uncuffed me—” 

“No.” The rejection is blunt and it wrenches up to break apart like static on the modulator. His hand cards through your hair, stepping closer to allow you more room to work, “Just this.”

You drop the subject to wrap your lips around his cock. 

_“Fuck,”_ he groans from behind the beskar, unsteady and ragged as you offer a long, generous suck around his sensitive head before opening your jaw to take him further. His other hand comes down against the headrest of your seat, gripping down into the leather tightly enough that you hear the material complain. _“Sweet girl,”_ he gasps, his voice almost sounding bewildered as you drag your tongue against the underside of his cock, “y-you’re— so _warm_. _How are you so warm?”_

Your mouth is furnace hot — hotter than your cunt had been when he fucked you the first time. Even in the cold of the ship, sweat beads over your forehead and you moan around his length when he does the courtesy of pushing his hand through your hair to get it out of your face before trailing down to your exposed tits again. 

Your shoulders scream at you as the binders stretch them into an uncomfortable angle, but you don’t register it. Not when the Mandalorian’s thrusting himself into your soft mouth. Not when his hand is leaving hungry bruises over your breast.

It’s sloppy. Without your hands to anchor you or help you, you have no choice but to let your saliva dribble down your chin as you work your mouth around him, inch by inch until your gag reflex forces you to retreat back to focus on his head, still leaking over your tongue. 

Maker, your mouth waters even more at the taste as his cock twitches, pulsing even more of his pre-cum over your tongue when you lift your palette and take him down your throat again. 

It’s your name that wrenches from his mouth, hollow and wrecked, and he says it again and again between garbled praises until— 

“G’nna cum— _sweet girl,_ i-if you keep— keep doing that—” he chokes out, swallowing tightly as he curls his fingers into a fistful of your hair. His hips give a desperate little thrust that threatens to make you gag, earning him a muffled little squeak as tears pinch at your eyes from the strain. 

You glance up at him and the sight sends a bolt of searing pleasure straight to your neglected cunt — the Mandalorian, his helmet lolled back and no longer watching as his cock twitches on your tongue. The mysterious man you had grown to fear and admire, unreadable and grander than anything you had ever experienced in your narrow corner of the galaxy — a man you had seen go hand-to-hand with enemies bigger than himself to saunter back home to you and the child without a word of complaint. 

And here he was, _falling apart._ For you. For something as meagre as having his cock down your throat. You swallow around him, flattening your tongue as you watch his helmet roll on his shoulders until he’s staring right at you, and you at him.

You draw back, letting his cock pop from your mouth as you gasp down a lungful of air that burns in your throat. You can hear him panting. “Good,” you exhale drunkenly, tipping your chin to lick a wet stripe up from base to tip, “Cum in my mouth.” 

Mando’s voice cracks as you drop your head, letting the furnace of your mouth engulf him again as you make him _chase_ it until— 

The console begins blaring.

Urgently.

You want him to ignore it, you want him so desperately to keep fucking your throat, to cum in your mouth like he wanted to, but the hand in your hair is already tearing you back and off of his cock. 

“S’wrong?” you gasp, almost whimpering in anguish when he tucks himself back into his pants and retreats back into the pilots seat, swivelling away from you.

The ship gives a sudden lurch that yanks your weight against your already strained shoulders as the ship drops out of hyperspace. It isn’t until the Crest regains its steadiness that your eyes focus on the unfamiliar orange planet steadily growing closer. 

It’s quiet again. Enough so that you can hear the unsteady catch of the Mandalorian’s breathing as he white-knuckles the console’s gear stick. 

“Mando?” Your voice pipes up from behind him after a moment; small and hoarse as it reaches out needily for him to _finish_. 

“There’s someone here who can keep an eye on the kid for the next few days,” Mando says, the slightest tremor in his voice as he reaches above him to activate the landing gear. Your heart clutches at the realization that your little escapade was over, but something else trudges its way through the murk of your disappointment. 

“D… days? You— you didn’t need _days_. You’re fine, y-you’re not—” 

Mando is silent for another long moment, staring ahead as the ship slows into its descent on what looks like a desolate little valley of orange hills. It isn’t until the ship fully settles and he turns off the pulsor jets that he carefully speaks. 

“I was out in that forest for two days before I found my way back to the Crest,” he admits. His words hang with a meaning that takes you far too long to register. “It’s going to get worse, and I meant what I said before,” Mando hesitates, already starting to stand out of his chair like he couldn’t bear to say the next few words while placidly sitting, “Once we start, you won’t… you won’t want me to stop. Not for anything.”

_Oh._

Your eyes follow him as he plucks his glove from where it had landed between the two gear sticks before facing you again with a short double take. His helmet tilts lower, almost seeming to have forgotten that he had unceremoniously left your tits out on full display, your tunic’s flap messily hanging open and your nipples still deliciously hard. 

His hand reaches out, hesitating a moment for permission — which you grant him, only to whimper in disapproval when instead of touching you again, he simply reclasps the front to cover you up. His hand lifts again, carefully wiping your chin. Of all the things you had just done for him — _this_ makes you blush.

“I won’t be gone long,” he explains, stepping behind your chair for a moment before the pressure holding your arms behind you disappears. He steps out of your perimeter of reach immediately, just in case you make another swipe for his helmet, but you simply curl your arms into your chest, fighting down the incessant urge to sink your now free hands down between your legs. 

“You stay with the ship,” he continues, grabbing his rifle from its holster against the wall. “Once I’m gone, I’m going to activate the ground security protocols.”

“You’re— you’re locking me in?” 

“You’re not a baby in a hot jet. You’ll be fine. The last thing you need right now is—” He stops there. You wait for a moment, expecting him to continue, but he doesn’t. What was he going to say? He didn’t need you wandering off into the desert to find him if you got too desperate? Or that he didn’t need someone finding you like this? Someone who wasn’t him? The last thought puts a shiver down your spine. “It’s just a security measure.” 

The door of the cockpit slides open but he pauses. His touch startles you, not expecting him to reach back out, but he cups your jaw one more time, watches you for a moment longer. He tips his head as he speaks and for an odd moment, you think he might have kissed you if it weren’t for the helmet. 

“I’ll be back soon.” 

It’s a long moment before you see the Mandalorian’s figure appear on the horizon of the cockpit’s observational window. His beskar catches the sunlight, alongside the metal sheen of the child’s floating cradle. 

He pauses, and you wonder if he somehow sensed your gaze as he looks back to the cockpit window and stares up for just a moment. He lifts his vambrace and touches something on its control panel. The ship’s gears lock down, sealing tight to the outside world with you inside. 

It isn’t until he turns away, carries forward to the horizon, that you drop into the pilot's seat and sink your hand down into the waistband of your pants. 

—

It’s nightfall by the time the Mandalorian returns. 

The swelter of the evening had given way to a slightly more forgiving dry kind of heat, the arid temperature already warming the ship before the ground protocols even disengage. 

You don’t hear it — not the sound of the ship sighing its mechanical exhale when the ramp door drops before shutting again, nor the heavy footsteps approaching from the far end of the hull. 

You don’t hear any of it until it’s too late to compose yourself as the cockpit doors slide open — and you find yourself falling precariously backwards, hands too preoccupied to catch yourself before your head collides with a _thud_ against the knees of a startled Mandalorian. 

There’s a moment of fear — sharp and sickening as you blink up at the dark shadow towering above you — until the beskar shifts, catching the console lights. You slump back down, your muscles going boneless again. 

“You’re back,” you sigh out, your voice spaced out and half-dazed — but happy. _Euphoric_. 

The Mandalorian doesn’t need much light to see the hungry way your wrist shifts and curls between your legs, both of which currently sprawled open across the cockpit floor — the wet, slick noises would have been more than enough for him to know what you were doing without the visual aid. Though, he does appreciate the image of your tunic laying open and askew, the hills of your breasts offered freely to the starlight. 

“The floor?” He asks, voice scraping low through the helmet, “Really?” 

“Shower’s s’too far,” you pant out, your head dropping back against his shin as your fingers curl into a spot that makes you dizzy, “Tried to… to get down the hatch. Didn’t make— make it.” 

You don’t get a moment to respond before a firm hand catches you beneath the armpit and starts hauling you up, forcing your hands out from between your legs to find purchase in the thick material covering his arm to avoid losing your balance. A gloved hand drops to your tummy as he steadies you. 

“Were the lights also too far?” Mando quips lowly, the teasing tone of his voice dropping the moment your hand slinks down to cup him over the heavy material of his pants. He inhales sharply, his helmet dipping as the edge ghosts over the top of your hairline. You find the still semi-hard ridge of his cock under your open palm and begin stroking your palm across him.

His fingers flex against your stomach before slinking lower— and lower. Leather brushes against the soft curve of your mound, pausing just over the seam of your already swollen, slick-coated cunt. 

Another shuddering coil of heat flashes to your core, dropping your jaw open as you press your forehead against his chest plate to whimper. Your hand cups over the back of his hand — big enough that he hardly moves an inch when you attempt to guide his hand where you were _painfully_ empty, _“Mando—”_

“Can you make it down the ladder?” The question earns pathetic whine out of you, your limbs buzzing so vibrantly that the hull might as well have been on the Outer Rim rather than right beneath your feet. 

“Why— why not here—?” 

“You’re not going to be able to get down that ladder in a minute,” he warns, drawing his hand up your stomach and gently pushing you back, “and I’m not fucking you for three days in this hatch.” 

The promise that threatens in his voice settles hot in your belly, your feet already carrying you forward again as your hands reach for his tough fabric concealing his side, tugging needily, “But—” 

“No ‘but’s.” Mando shoots back, his voice leaving no room for argument as he dislodges your hand from his shirt. His helmet regards you for a moment before he descends first. You wait for the sound of his boots hitting the hull floor, followed by two sharp smacks reverberating up the steel rungs, before you twist around and shakily find your footing in the ladder. 

It isn’t until about halfway down, when a gloved hand touches your bare thigh, that you realize you must be presenting… quite a view for the Mandalorian. 

“Easy,” he murmurs darkly from beneath you, your foot almost missing the next rung when that hand slides up across the juncture just beneath your ass, his fingers fanning out across your flesh as he repeats himself, “Easy.” 

You hang onto the rung like your life depends on it, your whole body seizing into place when he slowly — sneakily — draws his thumb across the glistening seam of your cunt. 

Then his touch is gone again, fleeting back up the curve of your ass and settling on your hips as he coaxes you into motion again. You’re almost grateful for his hands pulling at you when the hatch of the cockpit finally shuts, closing off the last window of light and pitching you entirely into darkness.

Your knees shake when your feet finally meet the ground, and—

The Mandalorian doesn’t let you turn. 

His hand, intimidatingly broad and firm, pushes up against the middle of your back. Then, you feel him. Beskar and canvas and the leather rifle strap that divides across the metal pressing against your back. 

The back of your head knocks against the cuirass and his voice echoes down from beneath his helmet — one distinctly modulated, and the other _achingly_ , familiarly _human_. “Keep your hands there. On the rungs,” he instructs, the edge of the beskar scratching across the top of your head, his voice appearing right at your ear, “Don’t—,” he pauses, his hand tightening on your back for a moment, “Don’t turn around. Understand?” 

You clutch onto the rungs without a thought, half due to his command and half due to the way your knees fucking buckle when you can feel the way the rigid outline of his cock strains against your bare ass. The position is vulnerable, you feel vulnerable, your ribs and belly and entire lower region exposed to the hot, dry hull air as your tunic rides up and hangs open. 

You don’t care — not when his glove drags over your tummy and _up_.

“Do you have another one of these?” Mando asks suddenly, his hand dragging up into the open collar of your tunic, already unclasped from your earlier activities on the floor of the cockpit. Your chest coils back instinctively when the icy metal of his vambrace catches against your nipple, but you give an impatient nod of your head for just a moment before the Mandalorian curls his fingers into the seam — and _rips_. 

The motion jostles your body backwards, only to collide with the front of the Mandalorian’s unforgivingly firm chest plate and then — then — 

Massive hands, still gloved, squeeze up under your breasts, pushing them together and letting them fall heavy in his hands. Your whimper is humiliatingly needy, a noise that curls from the centre of your chest and exists in your throat as your cunt hums as at a frequency to rival his vibroblade. 

“Bite.” His voice startles you, your eyes dumbly blinking open despite your complete inability to even see neither the rungs nor the wall behind them, let alone the gloved hand currently held in front of your face. 

“W-what?” 

Something blunt presses up against your bottom lip. Your tongue pokes out instinctively, tasting nothing but leather and the sharp tang of blaster residue. His voice comes again, thick and ragged and pitched deep across the helmet’s modulator as he speaks next to your ear. _“Bite.”_

There’s something in his voice — something just as _wrecked_ as yours, a tone you’d heard once before, breathed into your ear just like this — it makes your thoughts scatter apart, enough so that it takes you a moment before you realize what he wants you to do. 

And you do so obediently, opening your mouth and closing your teeth around the loose end of his glove, letting him tug his hand free of it. 

He tears the other off himself and you’re left with that glove, dangling from your mouth, when he sinks his hand between your legs.

Except, he doesn’t touch you — at least, not the way you want him to. 

The Mandalorian sinks his fingers down, curling them to cup your pussy in the palm of his hand, the broad strength at the heel of his hand pushing up into that thrumming clutch of nerves. He inhales sharply at the feeling of your wetness, slick and pooling into his bare hand. 

Your knees go _weak_ , dropping your hips down into his touch as the glove falls from between your teeth.

_“O-oh— fuck, fuck, Mando—”_ you sob out, tipping your head back into his chest — your height difference woefully keeping his shoulder just inches out of reach. His helmet tilts against the side of your head, cutting cold against your cheek as he sucks in a breath, his other hand groping firmly at your breast. 

_“Stars,”_ he hisses, dropping his finger to slowly push against the cleft of your cunt, parting you enough to feel the fevered heat within you, “You’re _wet_ , _sweet girl_ — I should have come back sooner, should have—”

Your hips jerk back when his fingers drag up next to your soft clit, the feeling of his fingers — so bare and rough and firm and —

“Too much—” you gasp out, all air and desperation as your hips reel back against the front of his pants, tight enough to feel his cock twitch behind the fabric when he thrusts himself against you. His fingers swipe down against your raw clit and you think you might black out right here, arms still clutched around the cockpit ladder’s rungs. _“Oh, Maker, stars— fuck, Mando!”_

“Don’t run from it,” he rasps out, advice masked as a command, “Let me take care of you, sweet girl, just how you need it.” 

Everything in you twists up, tight and urgent and blinding as he locks you back against his chest and quickens his pace, working you higher and higher, until your words burst from your chest, steeped in desperation. 

_“Fuck me, Mando!”_ You cry, your head twisting until you’re nuzzling back against the edge of his helmet, _“Want you fuck me, need— need you inside, to f-feel you again — please, please—”_

The noise that leaves him is something between a snarl and a groan, his hands yanking out from between your trembling thighs and releasing your breast. 

A zip pulls behind you, the sound hitting you right in your centre, walls clenching and unclenching as you spill your own wetness across your thighs until they slip together. 

His hand returns to your pussy briefly, curling up from behind you with two fingers at first — pressing and curling and separating before he draws them back again. The Mandalorian groans behind you, and you almost blush when your ears — sensitive in the darkness — picks up the lewd sound of him stroking himself with your slick. 

And then — _pressure_. Blunt and thick as he breaks you open over his cock. 

You _wail_.

Your eyes wrench shut as you exhale all the air in your lungs, your hips arching out and up as his fingers sprawl over your back, pushing you forward until you bend. Even in all your readiness, your body still struggles at the effort to take all of him. 

“Fuck,” you both gasp out jointly as he works himself into your wet heat inch by inch. “H-how are you so— so _tight_?” His vocoder picks up every crack in his voice as he draws back, his chest slumping slightly against your shoulder as he pauses to compose himself when your cunt squeezes down around him. 

“Don’t stop—” you throw back over your shoulder when he pauses, your tone just a note over pathetic, as his grip tightens on your hips to still your attempts to fuck yourself back into him, to take those final few inches no matter how searing the stretch, “Please, _don’t stop, Mando.”_

A sudden swat comes down on the side of your ass and you yelp into the darkness. “Impatient,” he growls out, locking his hands back down over your hips, forcing you still as he draws himself back from your heat.

Your mouth falls open in complaint, but you swallow it back down when he slams into you, burying himself completely into your body.

Then, the Mandalorian starts _fucking you._ That’s what this is, what he’s doing to you — _fucking_. There’s nothing sweet in the way he pounds into you, his cock heavy and hard as he uses his grip on your hips to hold you how he wants you.

The noises are obscene as they echo through the empty hull, letting you hear your own wet desperation with every _slap_ of his hips meeting your ass as the force of him drives you forward into the ladder. 

A boot knocks your stance wider, your feet skittering forward in some attempt to brace yourself when his hand hooks down under your hips, fingers pushing up against your throbbing clit as he starts _rubbing_. Hard and quick and your chest drops forward, putting all your weight on your already shaking shoulders. 

“Mando—” you wheeze out, his name falling urgently as he rocks up into something heavenly inside of you, and then he keeps hitting it. Over and over and over as you grow more and more hysterical. “Mando, oh _fuck_. Oh _fuckfuckfuck—”_

You’re already pulsing, a deep dizzying haze muting your thoughts and your body’s already breaking out in a cold sweat when the Mandalorian pulls out of you with an obscenely wet ‘pop.’ 

The tears that had been lingering in your waterline and glazing your eyes for hours finally spill over with a heart wrenching sob — vicious enough that you fail to hear his helmet clatter to the ground. 

His hands reach up, unhinging your fingers from around the rung as he twists you around. It hardly takes him any time at all, caging you back against the ladder as his hands curl under your thighs, rucking you up until you wrap your thighs around his hips. 

Then he’s inside of you again. _Fucking you._ Hitting that one spot until your body _sings_ for him.

And his lips, cracked in places and soft in others, press against the tears staining your cheeks. 

“This what you needed, sweet girl?” he grunts out, his breath warm as you twist your head up until his mouth slots up against yours. He kisses you hard, parting your lips with his before dragging his tongue into your mouth with a small groan, “Needed me to fuck you like this? Since— since Correlia?” 

Your toes curl behind you as he pours himself into his words, each one punctuated by another brutal thrust that jerks you up between his beskar and the ladder. His head drops down to your throat when you sink your hands around his shoulders and deep into his hair, holding him tight to your body as his fingers dig bruises into your thighs.

“Yes— Ye-yes!” you squeak out, the word jolting out of you as he snaps his hips forward to bottom out inside of you again, “S-since Corellia— N-nevarro— oh, Maker, I’m g’nna— g-gonna—” 

His teeth sink into the curve of your throat, his hips snapping forward as his hand releases one of your thighs to find your clit again, “Then cum for me, sw-sweet girl, cum— _cum—”_

You do. 

You cum _hard_. 

Thigh shakingly, blindingly, sickeningly hard. 

The Mandalorian goes rigid, his thrusts stuttering to a complete fucking halt as his fingers continue to work your clit until you’re wrung dry and twitching. 

“There we go,” he gasps into your ear, his voice clear and crisp and your eyes fall shut as you spasm around him in the aftershocks, your body slumping bonelessly enough that it’s a wonder you still manage to keep your legs locked around him, “That’s what you needed, isn’t it? Needed me to make you cum?” 

Slowly, he starts thrusting again, his cock twitching demandingly inside of your walls and — maker, he hasn’t cum yet. He hasn’t even cum yet. 

His hand draws out from between your thighs, dragging up your tummy and cupping one of your breasts, smearing your own wetness over your tits as he starts fucking you again. He’s deeper than he had been before, your orgasm opening you up to take him even further and you’re almost fucking blindsided by the way your body draws higher again — already pulling up _tighter and tighter_ as he grinds up into that one terrifying spot inside of you. 

“M-mando, I— I th-think, w-wait—” There’s a panicked question in your voice as that familiar heat sears down hot between your legs, your eyebrows pulling up as your expression crumples into nothing but sheer pleasure. 

“It’s okay, don’t— don’t fight it,” Mando pants out, his voice softer, empathetic and urgently so. He swallows thickly, wedging his head against your throat as he moans tightly, “M-maker, I’m— wh-where? Tell me where, _sweet girl,_ where do you want me to—”

“Inside!” You cry, your voice drunk on your own euphoria. Your hand cups against the back of his neck as you hold his face against you, feeling the warm huffs of his exhales as he pants, “Fuck, please, cum inside me, Mando, want— want you to cum inside me.” 

The Mandalorian’s abdomen flexes down tight as he thrusts so deep that you swear he’s met the end of you. His hips pull flush against yours, holding there as he opens his mouth and snarls through his orgasm. 

You cum with him, the second orgasm locking every muscle beneath your waist down tight, milking him for every drop he feeds into you. 

His body slumps into your arms, pressing you tight into the ladder as he catches his breath. Your hands shake when you card your fingers through his hair, shivering at the feeling of his cock still twitching its final spurts inside of you as you turn your head, beginning to slowly kiss down the stubble of his jawline. 

Mando shivers at the feeling of your lips on his skin, his head tilting slowly until your mouth lands against his, stealing the last kiss. You press your lips against his twice more. 

You stay like that for just a moment, letting him kiss your mouth and chin until his breath starts evening. 

Then, slowly, you drop your weight until he finally relinquishes his hold on your thigh, letting you sink to your feet. 

Except, you sink lower. 

Your lips draw down his cuirass, placing open mouth kisses that follow you as you sink down to your knees between his hips and the ladder. 

“What are you doi—” the Mandalorian’s voice breaks off into a ragged grunt as you take his cum-soaked and softening cock into the warmth of your mouth again. 

His hand grabs onto the ladder rung this time, his eyes looking down at your dark silhouette as you look up, hardly able to make out the rough outline of his body as you draw your head back to lick the taste of both of your cum off your lips. 

“Finishing what I started,” you say.

—

You begin to come back to your senses by day three.

The pulsing, searing heat having faded down to something more tolerable — a lazy buzz, pleasant and hazy and your overworked muscles sink into it gratefully. You felt good — euphoric even. 

Your head drops down against the Mandalorian’s bare pectoral, your fingers drawing over the smattering of hairs there as you relish in the dry breeze currently blowing in from where Mando had mercifully lowered the ramp just partially — just enough to cool you off as the sun started its slow climb over the red mountains. 

“Getting tired already?” Mando hums beneath you, his jaw moving against the top of your head as he spoke, the words half-groggy in the afterglow. His fingers trace lazy circles over your back, travelling up the valley of your spine as your thighs splay open on either side of his hips. 

You don’t know how long he’s been inside of you now; not _fucking_ — just… basking. Relaxing.

“Is that your way of saying you’ve had enough of me, Mando?” you tease, pressing your mouth to the centre of his chest as you shut your eyes behind the crudely made blindfold (just a torn scrap from your old tunic, actually), currently wrapped tight around your eyes. 

The Mandalorian’s chest lifts with a small noise of amusement and the corner of your lips twitch upwards, your heart filling with the sound.

Another lazy breeze curls through the ship and you imagine his hair, how the wind must be tousling it, how it must look in the ambers and oranges of the morning. 

“I like this,” you blurt out, your train of thought arriving at your mouth before you even have a chance to second guess yourself. His fingers pause on your ribcage, and you hold your breath as the statement hangs quietly in the air between the two of you. 

A moment passes and you cringe inwards the longer it stretches.

Maker, why did you have to go and open your mouth? Of all the things you had said to him, of the things you had admitted, this… this feels somehow more naked, more vulnerable than your own bared body. 

You like this. An implied request for it to continue. 

You _like_ this. Present tense. 

You lift your head to where you think his head is, propping yourself up with a hand flat to his bare chest, “Mando, I—” 

A hand curls against your cheek, warm and dry as he drags his knuckles over your cheekbone before tucking a billowing lock of hair behind your ear. 

“I do too,” he admits, his voice the softest you think you have ever heard it. 

“Minus the drugs, right?” you add, earning another small chuckle that has your lips parting into a grin, your cheeks reddening at how lovely that laugh sounds. Maker, you wish you could see him. 

You bring your hand up from his chest, hesitating a moment before drawing your fingertip over his chin, then his mouth. He kisses the pad of your thumb and your heart sings.

“Did you— did you mean what you said, before?” Mando asks after a quiet moment, and something about the way he says it makes you wonder how long he had been waiting to ask, “About Corellia?” 

“Yes,” you answer immediately and honestly, finding no more need to hide the fact. Hesitating briefly, you offer up your own quiet question — one you had also been holding onto for just as long as he must have been. “Did… did you ever… before _this_ , before the shower—” 

You don’t know what you wanted to know. There were too many endings to it. Did he ever want you? Think of you? Consider that the feelings had been mutual? 

His knuckles brush down your jawline and when he answers, it sounds like he’d been holding onto the word for far longer than he’d ever admit. He exhales it; releases it like a weight he’d been carrying longer than he’d care to admit, “Yes.” 

You try to keep your voice even, even though it threatens to pitch higher with happiness.

“When?” 

“Since Nevarro.” 

You blink behind the bright cover of the blindfold. 

The Mandalorian watches your brow knit together above it, your head tilted down as though you could see him through the cloth. If you could, you would have found a lazy smile on his face. 

“But we haven’t been back to Nevarro since—”

Not since he had hired you.

_Oh._

You feel the line of his mouth curve upwards, and you blush at the feeling of his small smile. He doesn’t elaborate, instead turning his head to press his mouth against your wrist. 

His hand slowly moves down from your face, gliding down to your breasts. Mando offers a small noise as your cunt offers a small squeeze as he lazily traces a circle over your nipple before carefully cupping the weight of your breast into the centre of his palm. Goosebumps rise along your flesh, “There wasn’t a moment,” he admits and it takes you a moment to realize what he was referring to, “Just... little things. Ever since then. Everything since then.” 

Mando’s hand slowly drifts down your side, his fingers coarse as he aimlessly touches your body, savouring the softness of it. He watches you hover over him, listening to what he was saying. 

Then, you drop down, pressing yourself down into his chest as your lips slot against his. The height difference drags you up, his cock slipping softly from your heat. You shudder at the feeling of his cum dribbling out of you, making a small mess at the base of his stomach as you lean up to kiss him.

“We should shower,” you whisper after a moment.

“I’ll do you one better,” Mando mutters, his tongue licking into your mouth as his hands circle down around your hips and begins pulling you forward, “Come here.” 

Your hands settle over his as he drags you up, up, _up_ until your thighs cage his head in. You blush brightly at the position, lifting your hips despite his hands gently urging you downward. 

“Mando—” you gasp, your body gently jolting as he tilts his chin and opens his jaw before you feel the soft way his mouth engulfs your pussy. 

“Never have enough of you, sweet girl,” he mutters softly, pressing a kiss just above your clit, his eyes watching you as your head lolls to the side, “Never.”


End file.
